I moved over the winter, away from the southern end of the city to a more central, downtown-ish location.
I love my new place for a number of reasons, one minor one being added distance from the airport. Not that planes overhead really bother me all that much – it’s kind of cool to see those huge machines gliding in or blasting out, and a busy hub like Ottawa International has tons of people coming and going, plenty of opportunity to spot something small or large doing its thing in the sky. Still, it’s noisy business, and one day one of those planes is going to fail to defy gravity like it should, and the further away the better when that happens, as far as I’m concerned.
Not that all air traffic has disappeared from my life.
Living two blocks from the local general and children’s hospitals means that there’s a helipad in the very near vicinity, and though that particular circle of fenced-in concrete is nowhere near as busy as the airport, one can still hear and see the orange medical assistance helicopters doing their thing several times each day. When I see one emerging over the tree line or floating back home and precisely into place, I think it’s pretty damn cool how they do that.
Then I remember what it is those people in that helicopter are doing, what their purpose is and what personal drama is beginning or ending for someone I don’t know in that aircraft, and it becomes just another thing I am grateful to have available, but would rather we could all just do without.